


When Life Doesn’t Give You Lemons

by Jessa



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec and Jace are not stepbrothers, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Masterchef (TV), Breece!Malec, Brendan!Alec, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Praise Kink, Reece!Magnus, Sexual References, drug references, headcanons about both Malec and Breece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessa/pseuds/Jessa
Summary: Magnus and Alec are contestants on Masterchef. Without a recipe, they must each make a dessert by celebrity chef Jace Wayland or risk elimination from the competition. Magnus' talent is for desserts but Alec is inexperienced at those. So to save him from going home Magnus must give him some lessons in baking.This is inspired by Breece (Brendan and Reece from Masterchef Australia’s 2020 season) even though they’re just friends and Malec are not at all just friends lol but I fell in love with Breece’s IRL coming out story and mentoring of each other. And I just really wanted to smash them with Malec and make this story for you all to read if you want to!
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 28
Kudos: 81
Collections: Hunter's Moon Fic Recs, Malec Discord Mini Bang 2020





	When Life Doesn’t Give You Lemons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarayFlair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarayFlair/gifts).



> This fic was created for the Malec Discord Mini Bang 2020 hosted by the Malec Discord Server.
> 
> Thank you to [DarayFlair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarayFlair/pseuds/DarayFlair) for beta-ing this fic and just really being so patient and stoically tolerating all my overused words and fixing all my clunky grammar. I owe you so much and I appreciate all your time and thoughts along the road to posting this <3
> 
> P.S. The expression ‘going for’ is an Australian colloquialism meaning ‘barracking for’. ‘I’m going for you’ is a soft way to say ‘I hope you win, I’m rooting for you’.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this story and thank you so much for giving it a go <3

Magnus Bane excels at the sweet things. He’s in this competition to win it with sugar but a different kind of sugar’s been catching his eye in all of the recent rounds. Perhaps today a cooking show’s not all he’s here to win.

“Hello,” Magnus whispers down the long cooking bench to Alexander Lightwood. 

“Huh?” 

Alec’s heard what Magnus said completely fine. And he’s certainly noticed they’re sharing a bench today; there’s something about him that makes Alec hyper-aware of where the man with the coif and eyeliner are at all times while they’re filming. 

Even while they’re not filming - even while they’re just waiting around between takes, like they sort of are now - Alec is very mindful of him. But Alec and Magnus haven’t spoken before. Magnus has sometimes said a _hello_ but Alec is shy and still new to cooking; and Magnus seems proud and proficient. 

“Oh, I was just saying _hi_ , that’s all.” Magnus gives him a little wave from the other end of the bench. “It’s fun we’re cooking next to each other today. Are you nervous about what we might have to do?”

Alec muffles the mic he’s wearing. “You shouldn’t be talking to me now,” he hisses. “We’ll get in trouble. We are meant to be quiet and listening. What if we miss an important instruction?”

“They can’t hear us,” Magnus breezes, adjusting the straps on his apron because he likes to do that; makes him feel good to wear it well. He also does it to have an excuse to move just that little bit closer to Alec. For as well as thinking Alec is nervous - about more than just missing instructions - Magnus also thinks he’s very pretty. “We’re on the farthest bench, we’re miles away. And they’re filming the blond now anyway. This is not _instructions_ , it’s flattering the talent. We’re not missing anything yet.”

Alec narrows his eyes at the front of the room. At the ‘talent’ he wonders if Magnus is maybe a little bit envious of: Jace Wayland, Head Pastry Chef at _Parabatai_ , the most esteemed French restaurant in the state. Alec’s favorite cuisine is French and he’d die to work with Jace. Impressing him today means everything. 

“Jace might give us some tips off-camera so you should still pay attention,” Alec chides. And then - because it always weighs on Alec’s mind that his parents watch this show - he adds, “There are microphones everywhere. And not just the ones we’re wearing. We need to be careful about what we say.”

Inwardly, Magnus tucks that comment away. Outwardly, he just says, “Okay, Alexander.”

Alec returns to paying attention. They’ve stopped filming close-ups of Jace and the judges have begun to introduce the challenge for today. They’re to make his single-malt whiskey tart without a recipe. “ _Without_ a recipe?” Alec breathes. 

“I was really hoping for something with lemons today,” Magnus murmurs. “I just want to make my _lemon_ tart. Whiskey is so dry. What sort of an oaf puts that in a pastry?” 

Alec gives him another sideways stare; he can sympathize about the citrus fruit. “I was hoping for lemons too,” he admits very quietly, still mindful of the mic he’s wearing.

Magnus has been watching the procession of contestants moving in pairs to where Wayland and the judges are standing, so they can taste his dish. Alec steals his attention. “Were you really hoping that?” Magnus asks.

“Yes,” Alec admits. He’s got that feeling going on inside him again. The one that usually makes him clam up and panic but he really wants to say this. It’s in Alec’s heart. It’s the truth. “There’s this burnt butter sauce I’ve been practising. With a lemon emulsion, it's really tricky. Goes really good with venison. I wish I could make it here sometime. Maybe next round. But only if I get through this one. I’m just really terrified I won’t get through this one.”

“I’ve never seen you make a dessert here before,” Magnus admits, keeping his voice low; more mindful now of Alec’s apprehension at being overheard. “And I was wondering about it earlier. That’s why I asked if you were nervous. Because as soon as Wayland walked through those doors I knew that’s what we’d be doing. He just wrote a whole entire book on nothing but the art of choux.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

Alec groans. “I’m hopeless at sweet things,” he confesses, becoming less and less conscious of his mic as other cares start to impact him more. “Glad I’ve never had to try to make one here yet…except maybe if I had of then I wouldn’t be feeling so sick about this.” He might as well just go home right now. Alec’s forte is savory; cooking lamb and jus, not making petit fours and syllabubs. And certainly not boozy tarts without instructions. He’s never even tasted alcohol.

“I’m sure you’re not hopeless,” Magnus says gently. “You know French flavors. I’ve noticed you always cook French.”

“You have?”

“Yes. And if you know those flavors, then you know desserts innately. So many techniques that have origins in entrees and mains are replicated in pastry. Baking’s just measurements, really.” 

At that very moment, the judges call the pair of them up to the front for their turn to taste the whiskey tart. Magnus and Alec start the long walk to where Jace is waiting. 

“Desserts only _look_ complex,” Magnus continues. “But they’re only a series of steps done in order like a dance. No guesswork, just patterns and logic. And maybe just a little bit of flair.”

As they walk, a new awareness starts to have its way with Magnus. He’s noticed Alec’s height before now. How beautiful he looks when he stands at a bench. How confidently he moves along it while he juliennes. They progress together up the side aisle. Heads close and ears next to mouths so Magnus can keep on whispering and Alec can keep on listening. Magnus starts to realize then that he has never been able to appreciate how earnest Alec’s face is when he listens. How big and soft his eyes grow; what a perfect shade of brown they are. Not just now but all the time. 

“What is it exactly that terrifies you so much?” Magnus asks. “Maybe it would help you to name a specific thing.”

But Alec doesn’t answer. They’re at the front now, facing a camera and Jace is watching them both very closely. Alec tries to project an image of confidence. Assessing from where to best sample the tart’s filling. By his side, Magnus picks up a fork and with its edge segments a portion of the tart’s short crust. He divides it in half and, with the tines of the fork, he pushes one piece toward Alec. Offering it. 

“Thanks,” Alec whispers, still nervous in front of the camera and Jace. He looks to Magnus; he’s opening his mouth.

They taste the crust of Jace’s tart together. It’s buttery and delicious and it melts across the back of their tongues. As they eat, Magnus picks up two spoons and passes one to Alec. He accepts the utensil and then they each dig into the creamy filling, timing their tastings so their spoons pass their lips at the exact same time, just as they did before. Magnus eyes Alec carefully. He’s scrunching his nose and Magnus suppresses a smile at that; at how cute he looks when his nose is wrinkled. 

The whiskey taste is evident so perhaps Alec’s not used to the intense flavors of hard spirits. It’s not what Magnus anticipated either and he thinks he can taste something warm like caramel, only not that; it’s not a burnt flavor, it’s cleaner. Almost fruity, like honey. And the texture of the filling is like a meringue but denser. As though it’s made with cheese that lacks sour notes. Possibly that means goat cheese. The top of the tart is definitely faintly colored, as though the filling’s been baked too. Not left somewhere cool to chill and set.

“It’s a double-baked tart,” Magnus whispers to Alec, now they’ve finished tasting and are making the long walk back to their bench.

“What do you mean?” Alec whispers back.

“The tart shell and the filling, both baked. The shell would be blind-baked but the filling low and slow. Remember that.”

Alec feels weak at the knees. They’re nearly back at their bench now. His hands are starting to shake. 

“You’ll be okay,” Magnus is whispering. “Just remember what you can taste and trust it. Don’t worry too much about methods, Alexander. Replicate tastes in your mouth.”

But Alec is now in a full-blown panic. He can’t taste anything but bile rising up in the back of his throat. The clock has started ticking and people around them are racing for ingredients and equipment.

“You don’t understand,” he snaps back, forgetting to keep his voice low and with no regard for his mic anymore. “Getting things so exact, Magnus. That’s what it is I just can’t do! I’m so nervous…I don’t know why I’m even here! I quit my job to come here. My parents think I’m having some kind of existential crisis. I just wanna prove to them that I can cook! And that I’m good at it. I want them to believe in me...if I could do it here, maybe they would. Prove to them that I’m as good as someone like Jace Wayland. I was never good enough at Math or Science in school for them, and all I ever do here is chuck things in hot pans and hope for the best. But that’s not gonna cut it this time. For them or for Jace. I haven’t even got a fucking _recipe_...but you? Well, you _know_ desserts, Magnus. You could probably do this in your sleep! You’ve won, like, almost every round! But I _need_ instructions, if I go home today, I…I just…I _need_ to be great at this. But nobody great couldn’t cook a tart. I’m gonna go home today because I can’t cook a fucking tart.”

They’re back at the bench now. Alec with his back to it, facing the exit doors. Magnus just stands in front of him and stares up into his eyes. His expression is firm. “None of us ever got anywhere by keeping on doing only what we already know we’re good at. Everybody here is a phenomenal cook. Everybody. And that includes you. You are here too, Alexander. But if you have doubts now, they’ll be like dominoes. That will fall through the rest of this round and you with them. Don’t start a wave you can’t stop. _Breathe._ Get control of it.” 

Alec’s eyes feel wet. He can see cameras left and right. He feels hot like his face is burning up and all he wants now is to disappear into the floor. But Magnus is still in front of him. Waiting here with him. Not leaving him alone to sort this out on his own.

“Do you ever feel,” Alec whispers to him, “Like somehow you got away with everything? Like you flew under a radar? Like you screwed up just as much as the person next to you but for some reason they were seen and you just weren’t? And that was the only difference between you going home and them going home? But that today you could be that person? Today it’s your turn to screw up? So that the person down the bench standing next to you today won’t need to be seen screwing up. Isn’t that how all this works?”

“Alexander, you are forgetting that I am the person standing next to you today,” Magnus says. “I know I won’t screw up. But I won’t let you screw up either. We don’t have to compete, we could do this together. It’s a _dance_ , remember? Take control of it.”

“I have no fucking clue how to dance either, Magnus.”

Magnus is a great deal less than shocked by that revelation so he just starts to lead them; sending Alec to the pantry with a list of ingredients while he collects tartlet pans, piping bags, whisks, beaters and several other items on a stainless steel tray. Then he carries it all back to their cooking bench as fast as possible, sets the accouterments down, and starts to unload some of them. And before too long, Alec is thundering back down the aisle with a steel basket hung from each forearm. Both overloaded with ingredients.

“I got it all, I think,” he huffs, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from his efforts. 

“Good boy,” Magnus praises, impressed by how much the man can carry. 

Alec positively beams at the compliment. His earlier tears are completely forgotten now. He hefts one basket up onto Magnus' bench and then he moves lightning-quick down to his own. 

“Start the pastry first,” Magnus calls. “Needs chilling before it’s rolled out. Stop me if you know this much, by the way.”

“I don’t know anything.” Alec reaches for his set of under-bench staples. “Bossing me is good.”

“Noted,” Magnus says, suppressing another smile as he sets his beaters to _pulse_.

Alec looks down the bench to check what Magnus is doing, noting he’s worked so fast up to this point he’s already beating his pastry. Sprinkling something, maybe the flour, over it as it beats. Alec sets to work on cubing butter and sprinkling sugar. Guessing the ratios. But he’s sure he remembers something about equal amounts of fat-to-flour. When it’s all in the mixer, he sets it to _beat_.

“Flour,” he murmurs, the idea of that still caught in his mind. He looks down the bench at Magnus again. “Did you do flour yet?”

“After the eggs,” Magnus answers. “And whisk the yolks before you add them, otherwise the finish will be flaky, not smooth.”

“What? Huh? Eggs?” Alec searches wildly through his basket for eggs. He doesn’t remember Magnus saying anything about eggs. “Don’t eggs go in cookies? Since when the hell do they go in pastries?”

“Not whole eggs, just yolks!” Magnus calls out again. “They’re in your staples, remember?”

“Well...urgh! How many, then?” Alec reaches for the carton.

“Two!”

Alec takes an egg from the box. He doesn’t have anything to crack it into so he just heads straight for the sink. 

Magnus spots him just in time. “What in the hell are you doing that in there for?”

“What in the hell am I doing what in there for?” Alec answers, cracking the egg into the sink.

“That!” Magnus cries, eyes narrowed; one on his pastry and the other on Alec. “You don’t crack eggs into a-”

“You just told me to use yolks! So I’m separating them out from the whites because I don’t have a...thing. To put them in. Okay?”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, a thing! So I’m using the sink.”

“Get a bowl!” Magnus sighs, lifting one off the tray and sliding it down to Alec’s end of the cooking bench. It clangs to a halt in front of him.

“Oh,” Alec says, as though he’s never heard of doing that before.

Magnus rolls his eyes but begins to watch with renewed interest. He’s surprised at what he’s seeing now. It is so different from the way Alec had thundered with such ferocity down the aisle from the pantry earlier and the way they’ve just been yelling at each other. Alec taps the egg on the edge of the bowl. Magnus is fascinated by how nuanced a man with something as unsubtle as a neck tattoo can be with such a fragile thing. And although he makes a mess of it, it’s only his technique that’s off. Alec’s hands are gentle. And that’s a very attractive thing about him too.

“Shit,” Magnus hears him mutter, as yolk begins to leak into the white he’s attempting to divide. In frustration, he forgets about the concept of bowls again and hurls the whole mess into the sink but he doesn’t give up yet. Alec’s shaking hands collect a second egg; time is ticking and he needs to get this right the first-ish time, not the twenty-first-ish. But the same thing happens and Alec’s armpits start to sweat.

“Take a breath, Alexander!” Magnus calls. “You’ve got the time-”

“You’ve nearly finished your pastry!” Alec yells back, watching Magnus turn off his mixer and turn out the buttery contents onto the bench, ready for kneading. “I’ve hardly even started...”

Magnus leaves his unformed pastry and heads down to Alec. “Try it again. Just slow down this time, alright? What’s happening, anyway? Do you just keep getting shell in it?”

“No, the yolk keeps splitting,” Alec grumbles but he does feel calmer now that Magnus is here beside him again.

Magnus thinks Alec might be feeling calmer too. And he has an idea about how he could calm him down even more but he’ll need Alec's permission first. “Alexander?” he asks.

“Yes?” Alec answers, looking at Magnus and curious because he’s looking back in a very different sort of way than he’s done so far before.

“Would you mind if I touched your wrist? Just for a moment? Just to show you something.”

Alec gulps. “Um, n-no,” he stammers. “I mean...no, I wouldn’t mind that at all.” 

Magnus places his hand on Alec’s wrist. The one belonging to the hand which holds the second egg. Magnus looks up at Alec again and he notices that the tips of Alec’s ears are turning pink. “This is still okay, right?” Magnus checks. “Me touching you?”

“Yes,” Alec says because it’s a lot better than just okay. Magnus' skin is soft and warm. And his thumb is brushing just a little over the small protruding knuckle at his wrist. It feels wonderful. And the fact that Magnus asked for his permission first feels pretty wonderful too.

“Slowly,” Magnus says softly, lifting Alec’s wrist. “These hands of yours are” - he looks at them thirstily - “large, Alexander...but that doesn’t mean that you can’t have good technique.”

Alec stares back at him. His heart’s in his mouth, which is strange. It’s only an egg and a hand on his wrist. He swallows. “Should I...do it now? Crack it?”

“Yes,” Magnus says. “One sharp tap on the edge of the bowl. You need a clean break. Do it... _now_.” Magnus lifts his hand and Alec cracks the egg. The halves of the shell break cleanly. Alec turns his right hand as viscous egg white spills from the broken edges. The yolk stays perfectly intact.

“Perfect,” Magnus praises. “Transfer it to your other hand. Cup it. You don’t need to use the shell at all, that’s when it breaks. Just let the excess run through your fingers. Gently, though. Don’t let the yolk go.”

Alec makes his hands as soft as he possibly can and turns the yolk out from the half shell in his right hand to his left. The yolk remains intact and Alec blinks down at it, sighing with relief. 

“That was very good, Alexander,” Magnus praises again, passing him a clean bowl just for the yolks.

“Thank you,” Alec says. He drops the yolk into the bowl and then he collects a third egg from the box, so he can add two yolks, just as Magnus said to. He glances at Magnus to check he’s still doing it right. Magnus nods his approval and once Alec has two unbroken yolks in his bowl, Magnus hands Alec a whisk.

“I know you’ll do a very good job of this too, Alexander,” Magnus says. “With those very large hands. And with these very strong-looking arms...do you mind if I touch you again?”

“Not at all,” Alec whispers. 

Magnus touches Alec’s right forearm. “This arm looks _very_ strong, Alexander.”

“You really think so?” Alec whispers, awareness of the mic he’s still wearing returning. He really hasn’t thought of it much again until now. But for some reason, suddenly, this feels like a conversation not about cooking at all. 

“I really _know_ so,” Magnus purrs. “I watched the way you carried those heavy baskets earlier. And, as well as carrying very heavy things like that, well” - Magnus strokes his fingers down to the crook of Alec’s elbow and then back along his forearm to his wrist - “these arms look like they might have had a lot of practise at activities like whisking egg yolks too.”

“Oh, I hardly ever whisk egg yolks,” Alec says truthfully. “I usually just use a stick blender.”

“Things _like_ whisking egg yolks,” Magnus repeats. 

Alec’s eyes widen at him. Now he’s very aware of his mic again.

“I'm talking about salad dressings, Alexander,” Magnus says, smiling.

“Oh, right,” Alec says slowly. Finally starting to whisk the egg yolks. “Yeah, salad dressings...I do make a lot of salad dressings. I do like to eat dressed salads.”

“I do like to eat dressed salads too,” Magnus says. “So, anyway. Alexander, this egg yolk is really only for flair, okay? Just pour a touch into your pastry for color only and do _not_ throw out the whites. We need them for the filling, remember that. It’s very important...you’re doing an _excellent_ job, by the way. I’m _very_ proud of you.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

Every time Magnus purrs at him like this and gushes something approving, Alec feels like when he called him a _good boy_ ; his chest expands and his face warms. Not in the way it had earlier though, when he was flustered and panicking. It flames with the same thing Magnus says he feels. The praise makes his face flame with pride.

Alec stops whisking, tilts his bowl slightly, and, as Magnus suggested, adds just a touch of the whipped yolk into the creamy butter and sugar mixture. His mind, for a second, only half on the next task - of setting his mixer to _beat_ \- as a thought starts to creep into his head. Not one he doesn’t welcome. Not a doubt or a paranoia. Just an idea that maybe today isn’t actually just about cooking. Would it really matter if Alec went home? And if it wouldn’t matter, why not?

“Alexander?” He glances at Magnus again as the other man’s hand finds the one Alec has on the mixer’s speed dial. “Just a _pulse_ , not a _beat_. Okay?” Magnus guides Alec’s hand to the third setting, not the fifth. And he leaves his hand over Alec’s for the whole time it takes for the ingredients to form a very slippery cream.

“I beat it the first time,” Alec says, looking down at it reflectively. “Should I have pulsed it? Maybe I should do it again.”

“It’ll be fine, just keep moving,” Magnus says, as he leaves Alec alone again and returns to his end of the bench to continue progressing his own tart.

Magnus kneads the dough he turned out earlier. Deftly, ensuring his hands only contact it minimally. Hardly allowing it to touch the heat of his palms at all until he can knock it, again with minimal handling, into a flat round disc. It should ideally set now in the blast chiller for thirty minutes but he spent so long helping Alec with his whisking and his cream that he doesn’t really have time left for that. But if he handles it softly, it should be fine. He moves quickly to roll it out between greaseproof paper. Drop it into a tartlet pan to trim it, then fill it with baking beads. And in less than a minute it’s into the oven and cooking.

“Impressive.” 

Magnus looks up to see Wayland. He must be doing a lap of observation.

“Thank you,” Magnus accepts, eyeing him closely as he wanders down to Alec’s end of the bench.

Magnus pulls out the bottle of single-malt whiskey. He doesn’t pour himself a shot; he just twists the cap and puts the spout to his philtrum, smelling the aroma to try to ascertain how strong it might be. And how much he might need to add. He eyes the goat cheese and confectioner’s sugar still in the wire basket. Then he necks a mouthful of whiskey. It’s just as dry as he always suspected.

The egg whites he separated earlier are still waiting to be whipped on his bench. He’ll add those for air; cheese can get heavy. And he’s not sure they were in Wayland’s tart but he definitely wants to add them into his own; Wayland’s had been denser than Magnus likes tarts to be. Magnus watches him down the bench with Alec, who’s clearly getting flustered again. 

Feeling inspired, Magnus necks another mouthful of whiskey then diverts once more from his initial plan. He races to the pantry for cream cheese and adds equal amounts to his filling, then some of the sugar. In a separate bowl, Magnus adds even more sugar and a pinch of cream of tartar, then sets that in the mixer on _whisk_. And finally, perhaps just out of habit by now, he looks down the bench at Alec again; Wayland’s gone but Alec looks exactly the same. Magnus frowns.

“Are you alright?” he calls, even though Alec doesn’t seem alright at all.

“No,” Alec grumbles, patting at his pastry which to Magnus' displeasure is crumbly. Not the right texture by a very long way. “It’s just a mess…it looks like balls.”

“Balls can be quite lovely,” Magnus comments, strolling down the bench again and brushing the flour coating his palms off onto the front of his apron. “This though” - he fingers at the pastry - “does need a little bit of help, Alexander. How much flour did you add?”

“I dunno,” Alec says. “I just poured it in. Maybe, um...urgh, nope...I don’t know, Magnus, I’m sorry...I was...I was kind of thinking of something else...I lost focus.”

“Don’t be sorry, we can fix this,” Magnus declares, collecting it up and dumping it into the bowl with the rest of the egg yolk. “Mix it. Forget the chilling. I didn’t do that either, you’ll be fine. Just roll it out. But you need to hurry up, Alexander. You’re falling behind." He starts to walk back to his filling. "Is your oven even on?”

“Shit.” Alec drops to his knees in front of his oven. “What do I set it to?”

“Hot!” Magnus calls back, searching around his bench for a spoon.

“Hot?” Alec grumbles. “Could you be more non-specific?” He scoots across on his knees to Magnus' oven, which has been on for some time, and which has by now reached the right temperature. Magnus' pastry is already inside it, blind-baking. Alec peers through the door at it. Then at the heat dial’s setting. “Oh...okay,” Alec mutters. “Yeah, okay, that is hot.” 

He pulls back from the dial and suddenly a pair of heavy black boots are on the floor in front of him. His eyes run up a pair of dark leather pants. Past the hem of Magnus' lightly-dusted apron. And then they stop at a silver spoon he’s extending in Alec’s direction. At the same height as his mouth.

“Would you care to taste my filling?” Magnus asks. 

Alec looks up. “You’re up to this already? How in the hell are you up to this already?”

Magnus just smiles and proffers the spoon again. “It’s very good,” he tempts. “I put a little less of the whiskey in and a lot more of...something else. I don’t know about you but I found Wayland’s a little too rough for my palate. But this one’s a very smooth ride, I hope you’ll like it. But if you don’t want to you certainly don't have to taste it.”

Alec wants to though. He opens his mouth around the end of the spoon and firms his lips around the lower parts of the silver handle. Slowly sucking off all of the creamy, semi-sweet uncooked filling. Magnus pulls as Alec sucks and the spoon comes out so clean Magnus can see Alec’s wide eyes reflected off the utensil’s pristine concave surface. 

“Wow,” Magnus murmurs. “You certainly do have a very thorough mouth action.”

“That was delicious,” Alec whispers back. “What the fuck is in that? MDMA?”

Magnus grins. “Get your shell in the oven and I’ll tell you,” he teases. “I’m very glad you like it so much, by the way.”

“You’re amazing,” Alec murmurs. “Do you know that? Like...like, that tastes even better than Jace Wayland’s. How in the hell did you do that? I’m just, like...wow...Magnus...oh my god.”

Alec scoots back down to his bench, still on his hands and knees, and still savoring the flavor of the filling he’s just sampled from the end of Magnus' spoon. Licking at his lips and in between his teeth, mouth still watering. And his belly is warming. That must be the whiskey. He feels much more relaxed now; way more so than at the start of this cook. And enough, he thinks, to get him through the rest of it.

He sets his oven, stands up at his bench again, and things just flow from there. That must be the whiskey too. The trick with the yolks has worked on the pastry; it comes together as Alec kneads it. It rolls well, too, and doesn’t stick to the bench when he lifts it into the tartlet pan. He even has the foresight then to make two of them, just in case one gets too toasty in the oven. Or doesn’t come out clean later on. 

With thirty minutes to go, Alec’s tart shells are out and he does run those to the blast chiller. With twenty minutes remaining, Magnus pipes his filling into his cooled shell and slides it into his oven, dropping the heat by half and yelling at Alec to do the same. With ten minutes to go, Alec is only just getting his filling in the oven but at least it’s in and he’s grateful for that. It doesn’t look even as half as skillfully presented as Magnus' tart does though. 

But somewhere in between now and the way Magnus said _hello_ to him this morning, Alec has started to feel better. He knows it’s all due to Magnus. The way he walked with him up the aisle when he was so nervous to be around Jace. The way he spoke to him when he was upset; neither cold nor kid-gloved. The way he praised him. The way he taught him things. The way he bossed him when he needed it. The way he listened to him when he needed that too. The way they touched. And most of all the way Magnus made Alec feel okay for not being great at desserts. Okay for fucking things up. Okay for just being himself. 

The timer on Alec’s oven sounds. Magnus' tart is already out, on a plate, and looking much more to Alec than just edible. Looking beautiful. With thirty seconds to go, Alec lifts his tart out of its shell. Some of the edges fall away. The filling isn’t evenly colored. But he did it. He made it. 

“I plated it,” he murmurs, looking with pride at a very average tart that looks nothing like Jace Wayland’s. But everything like Alexander Lightwood’s. “Oh my god...I fucking plated it...I plated a dessert I made without a recipe...oh my god...I did it...oh my god.”

“I knew you could do it.”

Alec turns and Magnus is by his side again, as the judges call time on the challenge and all the cameras turn to the contestants. To catch their reactions, hugs, and hi-fives. But Alec and Magnus don’t do any of that. They just stare between their single-malt whiskey tarts and each other.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Alec says. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you either,” Magnus admits. “It was so helpful to have somebody else taste too. I’m really never quite sure if what I make is any good. The judges are one thing but...well, I don’t really have _that_ much confidence. Not as much as I should have. Not if I want my own business. And I really, really want my own business.”

“Magnus?” Alec whispers. “Can I touch you?” 

He smiles. “Of course you can, Alexander.”

Alec reaches for Magnus. His fingers, their ends still coated by his failed pastry’s crumbs, touch at his cheeks. They stroke along his jaw. And then the pad of one thumb brushes across Magnus' lower lip. “Can I please kiss you too?”

“I honestly thought you would never even ask,” Magnus whispers back. “I thought, honestly, how many spoons of my food must I give to this man before he finally gets the hint and-”

Alec pulls Magnus in by his apron. Cupping his cheeks as he tastes the warmth of whiskey on his lips. The richness of butter, the salt of cream cheese. But between his lips; that’s the source of the sweetest flavor ever. The one of being kissed back. He’s never kissed a man, and let alone in front of people; just how many, Alec could only guess at. In front of the other contestants. In front of the judges. In front of Jace Wayland. And in front of his parents, watching at home. 

When Alec draws away, Magnus looks up at him. “You know, you just did that on television, right? For all your fretting about microphones before and...well, you just kissed a guy on TV, Alexander.”

“Yeah,” Alec grins. “I know.”

“I always thought these shows were so scripted,” Magnus says.

“I guess they’re not always like that,” Alec says back. “I don’t even care anymore if I go home. I feel like I already won.”

Magnus feels breathless. From kissing. From the excitement of the cook. From how glad he is to hear all that from Alec. And Magnus is ready to go home too but not yet. “I still want to win that trophy,” he whispers.

“Your tart is amazing, Magnus,” Alec whispers back, rearranging his hands so he can hold him even closer. “I think you’ll win...I’m going for you.”

“At first,” Magnus confesses, his voice still low. Lost in a world that’s just their’s for a moment. “I thought winning was all I was here to do. But I guess...well, I guess maybe when life doesn’t give you lemons you make a customized whiskey tart.” He lifts his hands to Alec’s face and softly brushes the edge of one thumb over the curve of Alec’s lower lip. “And then you get to kiss the beautiful man who you tried to help make one too.”

Alec chuckles. “Magnus...if I do go home today, would you come over sometime? After you’ve won that is and all this is over...because I would really love to taste your lemon tart.”

Magnus brushes his lips over Alec’s. “I would really love for you to taste it, Alexander,” he whispers. “And maybe you could cook me a main course too…your burnt butter sauce with the lemon emulsion. And venison.”

Alec feels his face growing warm again. Magnus notices the tips of Alec’s ears are growing pink again. 

“Um...Magnus?”

“Yes, Alexander?”

“I’ve never actually cooked that before,” he confesses. “Not all together at once, at least...it’s...well, it’s just my idea for something I’d really like to try to make one day. For someone else. For someone special.”

“I would still eat it all,” Magnus whispers. “If you’d eat my dessert, I would eat all of your main course. Especially one that you’ve never cooked for anyone ever before, Alexander. If you’d let me be that someone else you’re looking for, that is. That someone special.”

“Really?” Alec asks, feeling his face nearly split into two, he’s smiling so much right now.

Magnus pulls Alec down for another quick kiss. The judges are calling him up to the front. It’s time for them to taste his tart.

“Yes,” Magnus answers, drawing away, collecting his plate, and heading for the front of the room. And calling over his shoulder as he goes, “I would relish that dish, Alexander. Every single mouthful.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
